Bright Stars, Dark Sky
by Rainne
Summary: Four ways in which Wash and Zoe didn't meet. Spoilers in the disclaimer.


Disclaimer: This is all Joss Whedon's fault. His characters, his setting, his decision to harpoon Wash...

A/N: Just a quartet of vignettes, because I will forever and always be a Zoë/Wash shipper and I've never done one of these things before. Review please, tell me what you like, tell me what sucks, you know the drill.

Shadow Puppet

The climax to Wash's World Famous Kabuki Shadow Puppet Show was fast approaching. Wash himself crouched behind the painted wood that made up his stage and theater, hands working furiously above him as he acted out the epic struggle to the delighted laughter of his young audience. Deep in the embrace of his muse, he tried desperately not to notice the presence of the large man behind him. The man wasn't being helpful, "You got two minutes to wrap up this kiddie show, Washburne. _Dong ma_?"

Wash glared up at him, but said nothing. He couldn't break character, and the grand overlord of the flea market Wash had set his theater up in knew that. He kept going, but made sure to draw out the final scene a full four minutes. Ah, the joys of passive aggressive retaliation.

Above the sounds of other parents collecting their children, Wash heard a man say, "Zoë, we don't got time to take in the local color. Let's go."

"Yes, sir," the girl replied, in a surprisingly deep and melodic voice.

Robbed

"Oh God! Oh God in heaven!" The stegosaurus dropped out of Wash's limp hand while the tyrannosaurus gloated, "Har har, mine is an evil laugh, har har!" The villainous dino marched over the land he had so recently snatched from the noble stegosaurus, still chuckling to himself as his claws touched between buttons, lights, switches, and other mysterious doodads at Wash's disposal on the consol before him. Once finished touring his ill-gotten territory, the tyrannosaurus booted the plastic corpse of the stegosaurus off of the console. It sailed into the hold of the small shuttle Wash was waiting to pilot back to his ship, the _Kong Long_. He was looking forward to finding a market for the goods weighing down the shuttle. Well, if he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to being out in the black again, among the stars. Levering himself out of his chair, he followed the dinosaur's path until he was standing in the hold... the empty hold, he was soon to notice. He spotted a single long slim leg stepping out of the door before he cried, "I've been robbed!"

Tall

Sergeant Washburne tipped the nose of his aircraft down so that it dove over the plain of Serenity Valley. He fired and registered the bodies falling to the ground in the light of his flashing guns. He wondered idly as the jet roared back into the sky how many enemies he had just killed. Swooping in again, the sergeant felt the vibration of bullets hitting the armor of his jet. He tracked down the source to a single figure standing on a boulder firing a very large weapon, wide open. His bullets pounded into the woman on the boulder just as her bullets hit his fuel tanks. Seconds before Wash's jet exploded, taking him with it, he noticed how tall she was, and how long it took her legs to crumple beneath her as she fell.

Contact

Hoban Washburne fiddled with one of the medals pinned to his dress uniform jacket. Serving with distinction, he'd never understood what the words meant. He was a soldier, he'd done what the Alliance told him to do, same as everyone. Maybe that constant frustration, that confusion, had brought him here today. Or maybe it was the same thing that brought every one of what his former superiors called "former patriots." He'd seen enough during the war and thought enough afterwards to come to the conclusion that the Independents were absolutely correct. Parliament trying to rule every terra-formed planet from their luxurious villas in the Core was not only impossible; it was insane to even think it would be possible, let alone preferable. So here he stood, waiting for this man, this Malcolm Reynolds, to arrive.

He didn't have much longer to wait. The New Independents leader looked painfully uncomfortable in his suit upon entering the lavish ballroom. His hand kept tensing, fingers curling and uncurling, near where his gun would have been as he scanned the guests for his contact. It was a credit to Reynolds' height and breadth that he hid his companion from Wash's view for as long as he did, but when she did step forward Wash stopped breathing. Her dress was quite simple; Wash sensed that she would have been uncomfortable in something elaborate like the confections adorning the every other woman at the ball. It conformed to every mouth-watering curve of her body and it moved with her in a way that was almost hypnotizing. Before he knew it Wash was in hearing range of the pair. He picked up Reynolds' last comment before being noticed, something about not kissing the dirt no matter how pretty it was. "Are you Hoban Washburne?" Reynolds asked.

"Yes," Wash answered weakly, "Yeah, that's me." He was staring at the woman, and she was staring right back at him.

"I'm Malcolm Reynolds." Wash picked up on something moving in his peripheral vision. With great effort he looked down to find Reynolds' hand waiting to be shaken. Finally regaining his knowledge of the gravity of the situation, Wash shook the hand in a way he hoped would be suitably strong and manly. Reynolds gave no sign that this was so. "And this is my second-in-command, Zoë."

To Wash's torment, Zoë didn't offer her hand. She just nodded, her dark eyes betraying nothing. "I'm gonna see after the buffet table, sir."

"Yeah, all right. Don't make yourself sick." Zoë turned and treated Wash to a front row seat of her walking away. Returning to his conversation, Mal took in the sight of a red-faced grinning contact still staring dreamily in Zoë's direction. "Hey, we got business to conduct," he told the lovestruck man. As an afterthought, he added, "Nice mustache."


End file.
